The city was full of light and people. They were moving through streets in crowds, singing songs, shouting and celebrating. Many of them were already merry from the strong wine. Hamisbyr led his son through less popular avenues, where they met someone only occasionally. When the two almost reached the house where they were lodging, they stumbled upon four armed warriors. They were obviously drunk, judging by the tone of their conversation. The street was too narrow so that crewmen barred the path forward completely.
“Can you please let us pass, good men,” asked Hamisbyr in an overly polite tone. Warriors did not seem to notice him at all. He cleared his throat loudly, in order to draw attention.
“Damn foreigners swarming our city,” spat one of them, “Go find another way, these streets are not yours.”
“As you say,” Ymdaton’s father made a forced smile, “Please, honoured warriors, let your humble guests pass.”
“To the fathoms with hospitality,” said another man, “Go away, you irritating us.”
“Listen,” Hamisbyr let out a sigh, “You know what day it is. I was just reminded of the person I’ve lost and miss still. I am not in the mood. Move away, I don’t want to blemish the holiday.”
“Oh, a tough talk,” chuckled the warrior who answered first, “And who are you to threaten us? There are four of us and one and a half of you,” he pointed at Ymdaton with contempt.
The boy gritted his teeth. The father made a sign for him to calm down.
“I am Hamisbyr, a warrior of the third crew in service to great house Abeneewy,” proclaimed he.
“I heard of Abeneewy, but never heard of you,” said the man, “Now get lost.”
The father did not move a step. The warrior who was threatening him stepped forth and swung his fist. Hamisbyr dodged the blow. Ymdaton was dumbstruck. He wanted to help his father, but also knew he would be useless in a brawl between grown men. The events before him accelerated and he did not quite understood what happened next.
The foe was drunk, yet moved with some degree of technique, which even the alcohol could not take away from the warrior. Hamisbyr made a kick at opponent's lower side, which the man saw and attempted to block. Next moment, father’s leg was raised high and stretched, hitting the enemy to the defenseless head. The warrior fell, getting a knee to the temple in the process, which knocked him out completely.
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In a single fluent movement, Ymdaton's father pulled a short spear, which was strapped to man’s back, and before the unlucky crewman even hit the ground, he faced the other three with the weapon in hands. Drunkards attacked at once, unsheathing their own blades. Hamisbyr moved between them, avoiding blows with ease. One of foes got land swept from under his feet by the spear, the other one was uppercut by a shaft, and the third one got his back exposed, instantly being punished by two hits: one to the back of the knee and one to the back of the head.
All of this happened in but few heartbeats. Hamisbyr stood victorious, totally unfazed by the fight. Around him lie four defeated fools, yet not a drop of their blood was shed to achieve that. He cast away the spear and, grabbing his son by the hand, quickly left the site of the skirmish. As Ymdaton was dragged through the streets, tears rolled down his cheeks. Hamisbyr noticed it quickly.
“What’s the matter?” asked he, “I haven’t seen you cry since your were five, no matter the hardship. What are you wetting your eyes for?”
“I,” Ymdaton sobbed, “I am terribly sorry, so sorry,” the words were being stuck in his throat. His father gave him some time to regain composure, not saying anything, “I am sorry for ever doubting you,” finally managed to spit he, “I thought you to be a mediocrity, for you never tell of your deeds and denied any rumours about you. But you are real. You are the unmatched warrior, like these in songs.”
Hamysbir sighed.
“Can you please train me? Old Yehoum did not show anything remotely close to what you did today,” asked the boy, feeling his father being open for once.
“I did everything to stop you from becoming a crewman,” said his father, “But here we are. I am cornered, I can not lie to you anymore. I guess, it is in your blood after all. If I can not change your fate, I will help you to meet it properly,” he made a pause and so did the boy's heart, “I will teach you what I know when we return to Isary.”
Ymdatons face brightened with a smile. Tears stopped, he shrugged to keep his nose from leaking.
“It will be hard. It will be ten times harsher than at Yehoum's place.”
“I am ready,” whispered the boy, feeling proud of his father and warm inside for the first time in many years.